Wards of Resentment
The room was deathly silent as Draco Malfoy sat beside Harry Potter at the long, polished conference table. The tension in the air was palpable, a storm waiting to erupt. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, stood at the head of the room, his calm but commanding presence enough to silence even the murmurs of the gathered Ministry officials. To his left, Seamus Finnigan, head Auror, sat stiffly, his jaw clenched in frustration.
Draco sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with frustration. He couldn’t fathom why he was even at this meeting. Every suggestion he had made previously had been shot down but Potter. It didn’t matter how many times Draco had proven himself and delivered results, Potter still treated him as though he were the same boy from Hogwarts—arrogant, entitled, and reckless
The Golden Bloody Trio had testified at his tribunal, and it had thank, the bloody Merlin, swayed the Wizengamot into pardoning Draco for his actions during the war.
When the Golden Trio—Harry, Hermione, and Ron—stepped forward to testify on his behalf, the atmosphere shifted. Their accounts were honest but tempered, painting a complex picture of a young man trapped by fear and obligation rather than malicious intent. Harry spoke of Draco’s hesitation at Malfoy Manor, how he failed to identify them despite knowing the consequences. Hermione recounted the careful neutrality Draco had maintained during her imprisonment, noting how he avoided inflicting harm even when expected to. And Ron, begrudgingly, pointed out Draco’s reluctance in the Room of Requirement, how he had ultimately abandoned his allegiance to save himself rather than fight for Voldemort.
Their testimony carried weight—not merely as war heroes but as individuals who had witnessed Draco’s internal conflict firsthand. It was Ron’s words, however, that seemed to sway the tribunal the most: "Malfoy may have made mistakes, but he didn’t choose this war—it was forced upon him. He had everything to lose and no real way to fight back."
The verdict, when it came, left Draco stunned. Pardoned for his actions during the war, he was granted the chance to rebuild his life—a mercy he hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure he deserved. Though gratitude burned in his chest, pride prevented him from expressing it openly to the Trio. Instead, he kept his distance, quietly resolving to prove—to himself and the world—that he could rise above his past and forge a different path. Or he would if Saint Potter would get off his proverbial high horse and listen to him. Potter might have been willing to keep him out of Azkaban but he wasn’t willing to let Draco forget his past and the mistakes he had made as a teenager. Potter had made his stance clear: Draco Malfoy might have been spared Azkaban, but forgiveness didn’t come packaged with leniency. No matter how hard Draco worked to prove himself—whether through meticulously dismantling curses, contributing to critical operations, or offering insights no one else could—Potter’s constant, unyielding air of superiority remained. It hung in the air like a bad odour, impossible to ignore.
Draco scowled at the memory of the last meeting. It didn’t matter that he’d identified the flaw in the failed Greyback operation, or that his analysis of the dismantled wards was the only lead they had. Potter’s condescension lingered, subtle enough to pass as professionalism but sharp enough to cut deep.
Well, who was eating humble pie now? The plan Seamus Finnigan had cooked up had seemed at first glance to be airtight. Finnigan and Potter certainly thought so, much to Draco’s annoyance. The initial confidence with which Seamus had presented the idea, bolstered by Potter’s unwavering approval, had grated on Draco from the start. Both men had been insufferably certain, brushing off Draco’s concerns about the glaring flaws he’d pointed out—flaws that, predictably, had now resulted in utter chaos.
What would Draco know? According to them nothing, which irritated him to no end. He had warned them that the wards needed to be examined more closely before they ran gung-ho into a potentially lethal situation. It was lucky that none of the Aurors on duty last night had been killed. It had been a close call but thankfully the idiot Auror who had stumbled directly into Greyback’s trap managed to disarm the cursed perimeter just in time. Draco could hardly believe the recklessness of it all—charging into a situation without properly analysing the warding magic was nothing short of suicidal. And yet, as always, no one seemed to value his expertise until disaster was breathing down their necks.
Draco drummed his fingers on the desk, his irritation simmering. It wasn’t just the lack of respect—it was the sheer idiocy of ignoring the glaring flaws in their approach. He’d told them repeatedly that the wards were more complex than they appeared, that Greyback’s accomplice had a knack for advanced curse work. But Potter, Finnigan, and the rest of them had dismissed his warnings, ploughing forward like stubborn Hippogriffs.
If they weren’t going to listen to him and value his input then he sure as hell wasn’t going to make an effort. He had better things to do than listen to idiot Potter prattle on. His workload seemed to expand by the minute, an endless stack of parchments detailing dismantled wards, and cursed objects waiting for analysis. If Potter and his merry band wanted to ignore his expertise, fine. But Draco wasn’t about to waste his time playing second fiddle in their poorly thought-out crusade.
Glancing at the door, Draco wondered where Blaise Zabini was. This was the third day in a row that he was late to work. The poor bloke was dealing with the fall-out of his mothers eighth divorce. While he couldn’t fault the poor sod for being caught up in yet another of his mother’s matrimonial disasters, Draco couldn’t help but feel a flicker of irritation. Blaise’s constant excuses were starting to wear thin, even if they were always tied to some melodramatic tale of Mrs. Zabini’s marital escapades. Eight divorces—and somehow, each one managed to be more scandalous than the last. Draco had no idea how Blaise managed to keep his composure amidst the whirlwind that was his mother’s life.
On that note, Draco didn’t know how he was going to keep his composure without Blaise there to temper his sharp tongue and biting remarks. Blaise, with his effortless charm and unflappable demeanour, had always been the perfect foil to Draco's more fiery temperament. While Draco excelled at cutting through the nonsense with precision, Blaise had a way of diffusing tension—turning even the most fraught situations into something manageable with a well-timed quip or a subtle raise of his brow.
Draco let out a huff, leaning back in his chair. Without Blaise’s balancing presence, every meeting with Potter felt like an endurance test—one that Draco wasn’t sure he could pass without snapping. And with Finnigan constantly throwing in his “brilliant” ideas, which seemed to cause more problems than they solved, Draco was dangerously close to losing what little patience he had left.
He knew Blaise would turn up eventually, likely with some effortlessly cool excuse that Draco wouldn’t even have the energy to challenge. And despite his annoyance, Draco couldn’t deny how much he relied on Blaise’s quiet support—both in navigating the chaos of work and keeping his temper in check.
Before he could ponder on his best mate's absence any further the deep and steady voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt broke through his musings and commanded the room’s attention with ease.
Kingsley threw down into the middle of the table that day Daily Prophet. Its headline, printed in bold letters, was impossible to miss: “Fenrir Greyback sighted in Muggle London. Werewolf Leader Stirs New Fear.”
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s commanding voice cut through the tension in the room. “This is where we are now,” he said, his tone sharp and unwavering. “Greyback prowling the streets of Muggle London, stirring panic while the Ministry scrambles. This cannot continue. We can't afford to let the situation escalate. Once again, we have another failed operation to apprehend Greyback.”
The room grew cold and silent as their collective guilt palpable at the Minister’s words sank in. Draco Malfoy sat stiffly in his chair, his sharp grey eyes narrowing as he studied Kingsley and, fleetingly, the Daily Prophet headline glaring up from the table.
“This cannot continue,” Kingsley repeated, his voice firm and his gaze sweeping the room. “Each failure only emboldens Greyback and undermines the Ministry’s credibility. We are running out of time—and options.”
Harry Potter leaned forward, his green eyes blazing with determination. “We’ve tightened surveillance, Minister. If Greyback’s sighted again, we’ll have a strike team in place within minutes.”
“And I’m certain that team will fail again without proper preparation,” Draco interjected coolly, his tone laced with quiet disdain. He ignored Harry’s glare and continued, “Greyback isn’t just roaming aimlessly. He’s coordinated, supported by someone who dismantled the wards with enough precision to rival even the best curse breakers in this room—myself included. Until we identify his accomplice, we’ll continue chasing shadows.”
Kingsley nodded gravely, acknowledging the truth in Draco’s statement. “Malfoy, you’ve been working on isolating the spell signatures from the wards. How close are you to uncovering their source?”
Draco’s posture straightened slightly, his confidence cutting through the simmering tension. “Close,” he replied. “The signatures are faint, but I’ve eliminated several possibilities. Given another day or two, I’ll have a name—and with it, a way to unravel Greyback’s network.”
“And what happens in the meantime?” Harry snapped, his frustration boiling over. “While you sit and analyse, Greyback’s out there, targeting Muggles, spreading fear. We can’t afford to waste time.”
Draco’s smirk was cold, calculated. “Potter, if you rush in without strategy again, you’ll only make things worse. Perhaps you should let those of us with actual expertise handle the planning.”
“Enough,” Kingsley said, his deep voice silencing the brewing argument. “Malfoy, Potter—both of you are critical to this operation. I expect you to act like it. This is not a matter of personal grudges; it is a matter of lives—Muggle and magical alike.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Draco said, his tone clipped but unwavering as he addressed Kingsley. “I brought up my concerns in the last inter-department meeting, and they fell on deaf ears. There are only so many ways I can explain myself to Potter before it becomes a waste of valuable time.”
The tension in the room thickened, Potter’s sharp glare practically burning a hole through the side of Draco’s head. Ignoring it entirely, Draco pressed on, his voice cool but firm.
“I highlighted the inconsistencies in the ward structures—explicitly pointed them out. And yet, instead of addressing them, we proceeded with a reckless operation that could’ve cost lives. It’s only sheer luck no one was killed.”
Kingsley’s expression remained impassive, though the weight of his gaze bore down on Draco. “And you believe your recommendations were dismissed purely out of negligence?”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t hesitate. “I believe,” he said evenly, “that personal biases are interfering with objective decision-making. My expertise in curse-breaking and ward analysis is why I was brought into these operations. If my input isn’t going to be taken seriously, then there’s little point in my presence here.”
Harry finally spoke; his voice edged with barely contained irritation. “Your expertise isn’t the issue, Malfoy. It’s your delivery. You have a way of turning every suggestion into an accusation.”
Draco turned to face him, his pale eyes glinting with challenge. “And you have a way of ignoring valid points simply because you don’t like the person making them, Potter.”
Kingsley’s hand raised, silencing both men before the argument could escalate further. His voice, calm but commanding, filled the room. “This is not the time for personal grievances. Malfoy, if there are actionable solutions you believe were overlooked, now is the time to lay them out. Potter, ensure that these solutions are given the consideration they deserve.”
Draco inclined his head, though his frustration simmered just beneath the surface. “Very well, Minister. I’ll compile the relevant analysis and provide an updated strategy by the end of the day.”
Harry's jaw clenched, his frustration evident as he spoke with determination. “We had a lead on Antonin Dolohov and the possibility that he’s operating out of a Manor—a property concealed within layers of magical protections. The informant mentioned signs of activity there, but we’ll need confirmation before making a move.”
Kingsley’s calm but commanding voice broke through. “This could be a key breakthrough, but it’s risky. Dolohov’s known for his cunning and lethal skill in warding. If this is his base, the protections surrounding it won’t be ordinary.”
Harry nodded, his gaze shifting to the gathered team. “I want to send an Auror and a curse breaker to investigate the site immediately. We’ll need someone skilled enough to dismantle those wards without triggering any traps Dolohov may have set.”
Draco straightened slightly at the mention of curse breakers, his pale eyes glinting with sharp focus. “If you need someone skilled enough to handle Dolohov’s work, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone better than me,” he said coolly. “Though whether Potter can refrain from undermining me during the process remains to be seen.”
Harry ignored Draco’s jab, turning to Kingsley. “Who do you suggest for the Auror, Minister? Finnigan’s team is already on another mission.”
Kingsley considered for a moment before responding. “Auror Ronald Weasley is experienced in fieldwork and adaptable under pressure. Pair him with Malfoy—his expertise in curse-breaking will be crucial.”
Draco smirked faintly; his confidence unmistakable. “I’ll need full access to the site and any existing analysis of its protections. If Dolohov’s there, it won’t take long to confirm it.”
As the meeting concluded, Draco Malfoy rose from his chair with an air of calculated ease, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. Kingsley’s announcement that he would be paired with none other than Ronald Weasley was both irritating and amusing—a twist he hadn’t seen coming but was determined to turn to his advantage. Adjusting the cuffs of his tailored robes, Draco cast a quick, assessing glance at the assembled Ministry officials before striding out of the room, his polished boots clicking against the stone floors with confidence.
The corridors were quiet, the bustling activity of the Ministry muted in this part of the building. Draco’s pace was unhurried, his mind already conjuring a litany of ways this partnership would be, at the very least, entertaining. It wasn’t every day that he had the chance to ruffle Weasley’s feathers directly—his reactions were too delightfully predictable to resist.
He headed toward Hermione Granger’s lab, where he knew he’d likely find Weasley lurking. The pair had an annoying tendency to gravitate toward each other like magnets—fascinating, really, how someone as sharp as Granger could tolerate Weasley’s perpetual fumbling.
Draco rounded a corner, his sharp grey eyes narrowing slightly as he caught sight of the lab door slightly ajar. Typical Weasley—never one for vigilance. He pushed the door open without ceremony.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the lovebirds,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Weasley, if you’re going to be late, at least have the decency not to defile Granger’s lab in the process. Some of us have standards.”
Ron groaned, running a hand through his hair as Hermione rolled her eyes. “Malfoy,” she said sharply, “if you’re here to gloat, save it. We have bigger problems to deal with.”
Draco smirked, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Oh, I’m well aware, Granger. But watching Weasley squirm is just too entertaining to pass up.”
“Oi Prat, how the hell am I late?” asked Ron rolling his eyes at Malfoys theatrics.
Draco raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he took in Ron’s irritated expression. “How are you late, Weasley?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mock disbelief. “Oh, I don’t know—perhaps because you’ve been holed up in Granger’s lab playing house instead of attending the Minister’s briefing?”
Ron groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Bloody hell, Malfoy, I was there earlier! Hermione needed my help with something. And for your information, Kingsley knows exactly where I was.”
“Ah, of course,” Draco replied smoothly, his grey eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Kingsley would naturally excuse Saint Weasley for his heroic acts of... organizing potion vials, was it?”
Hermione, already irritated by Draco’s presence, cut in sharply, her voice firm. “Malfoy, if you’re done being insufferable, perhaps you could let Ron know what exactly you need and then bugger off. Some of us have actual work to do.”
Draco held up his hands in mock surrender. “No need to bite, Granger. I’m merely delivering the good news. Weasley and I—partners at last. I can already see the headlines.”
Ron shook his head, “This is going to be a nightmare.”
Draco chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the moment as he turned to leave, his robes billowing behind him. “Cheer up, Weasley. It’s not every day you get to work with brilliance. Try to keep up, won’t you?”
As the door swung shut behind Draco, Ron let out a loud sigh, turning to Hermione with a look of pure resignation. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”
Hermione simply smiled, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’ll be fine, Ron. Besides, you’ve survived worse.”
Ron groaned again, muttering, “Yeah, and he was always involved somehow.”